


Bottom Dollar

by Holdt



Category: DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Edgeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Kink, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt
Summary: Money can’t buy everything.





	Bottom Dollar

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Bottom dollar 孤注一掷](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074933) by [c4rdinal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/c4rdinal/pseuds/c4rdinal), [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt)



> Yeah, no redeemable plotting here - just a birthday spent enjoying a Superman marathon. Couldn't finish Ch9 of _Accretion_ without getting this out of my head first.
> 
> As a symbol, a Cornucopia is typically depicted as a horn shaped receptacle overflowing with fruits, grains, flowers, and/or vegetables. Not today.
> 
> Happy Spring!

  


**⚜**

_Standing, back to back atop one of the tallest crane-lifts in the city._

_Conversation sparse—a review of hideouts raided and misdeeds punished, print missteps and social faux pas, surveillance and seriousness. Dry amusement and pointed banter. Low conversations that were not arguments only because arguments generally had more adversarial investment involved._

_“Say what you like, B - I bet Luthor’s back in State before we even get wind of Croc.” He’d been teasing. That’s how it began._

_“Oh really?  You think you can get Luthor behind bars faster?”_

_“You bet your ass.”_

_“Hm. I like a challenge. You’re on.”_

_“—you guys realize the comms are on too, right?”_

 

A simple joke, between men who were rapidly approaching something beyond friendship. Simple words, simply meant.

 

 “—And as for the rest, we can rendezvous in two days to discuss the developments once we have all the facts in play. “

Clark stretches his shoulders subtly as he stands.

“…well. Thank you, Batman. That was… informative. If there’s no other League business, I’m going to call it and close this session.” When no one else spoke, Clark repressed a sigh of frustration.  “Alright then, that’s it for tonight. Dismissed and good job, team.”

Batman, usually the first out of the room, took his time rising. “Superman. A word?”

“Of course.” Whatever Bruce wanted, he didn’t want to say in front of the others. Barry and Diana paused at the door; their usual routine of grabbing a bite to eat and a bit of non-League conversation (no matter how much Batman warned against inter-League fraternization) had been solid for months now. Clark smoothed his expression and waved them on with a smile. “I’ll catch up, guys.”

Barry, after two hours spent discussing regional impact and possible military interference, was  in no mood to wait. “Come on, we’re gonna miss double-fry day!” Diana looked from Batman to Clark and raised an eyebrow.

“We will wait for you there, Kal.” She looked at Batman again, a harder look, before turning into the doorway, urging Barry on with a friendly hand to his shoulder. Barry, ahead of her, was already talking at an alarming rate.

Clark waited until they were out of earshot, took in Bruce’s tense posture. “Okay. What’s the problem?”

“Not here. An hour. You know where.” With an enviable flip of the cape, Batman turned and strode away, boots sounding on the metal floors.

 

The lakehouse looms, its windows dark and empty. Bruce greets him at the door himself, skin scrubbed clean, hair in rakish, fresh-washed spikes, wafting soap and the sharp scent of adrenaline. He’s out of the suit and draped in soft gym clothes. He shows Clark through the darkened entranceway and into a room he’s never been in before.

“Last month. We had a wager. Tonight you won.” Bruce’s tone was short, but he didn’t sound angry.

Clark laughed. “That bet? Bruce, you were … we were _joking._ ” He stops. “Weren’t we?” Bruce stares at him, face blank. “I mean… I didn’t expect you to actually—“

“Keep my word?” Something hard and uncompromising in his tone, now. “The wager: if you put Luthor behind bars before I put Croc back where he belongs, you get a night. One night. Until you’re satisfied. That was the bet.”

 _‘You bet your ass.’_ That hadn’t, strictly speaking, been the bet, but heat coils and curdles in Clark’s stomach at the words all the same. “…Bruce…”

“You put Luthor in yesterday. I’d have called you then, but I had some loose ends to tie up—”

Things are moving too fast. “ _Bruce,_ wait—“

“—So, the house is empty. We won’t be disturbed. I’ve taken the liberty of providing multiple types of lubricant; I didn’t know your preferred brand. There’s condoms if you like and towels if you don’t.  My schedule is cleared.” Cleared, not clear, meaning Bruce had made allowances for this. No. Bruce had _planned_  for this.  “My colors,” he continues, “are blue, yellow and black.  Blue is all-go, good, keep it up, if you stop I will kill you. Yellow: wait for the all-clear. Black: full-stop. I don’t care what’s happening or how, you stop. “

He looks around the room for a moment, eyes too sharp for what he’s proposing.  “Knives are on the covered trays, if you… They’re sterilized. Everything is sterilized. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use an implement more than once between cleanings— “

“No.”

Bruce pauses, tensed, eyebrows raising. He looks vaguely discomfited, then he eyes Clark and a very un-Bruce-like expression crosses his face.  “Well,” he murmurs to himself. “I knew you like the scars. I didn’t realize you—“

“No,” Clark repeats, louder. “I am _not_ cutting you. I’m not doing any of those things to you.”

At that, all the air seems to go out of Bruce. “Ah,” he says softly, then, “My apologies, Clark. I trust I can rely on your discretion. Would it be too much to ask that you just never mention this again?”

Clark looks around the room, at the domed trays of food and drink, at the meticulously arranged futon and lounging pillows, at the cornucopia of brightly wrapped and intriguingly-named products.  He looks at Bruce, spine straight as a ruler, ostensibly ignoring Clark while he begins to gather up packets into the plastic disposal bin by the bed.

The trays with their elegantly covered contents crowd his peripheral vision. The idea that Bruce would think Clark wanted to hurt him, to _cut him, after all this time they’d associated…_

His hand, he realizes, is fisted.

“Until I’m satisfied?” The words don’t seem to come from Clark’s chest; they come from a much deeper place. Anyone half-sane, he thinks, would be able to hear the greed in his voice. Bruce, though, simply looks at him: a quiet, earnest invitation.

“Anything you want, as long as you like. Yes.”

He swallows. “Now?”

“Right now, yes.”

Clark walks to the door and back to Bruce, once then again, trying to calm his thoughts.

“You really mean this.” The edge of disbelief in his own voice doesn’t cut the tension, and Bruce’s silence is his answer.

It makes sense: Bruce’s attitude and micro-handling of him both on and off the battlefield, Bruce’s stares and silences, Bruce’s way of info-dumping on Clark whenever possible to share whatever wildly technical idea he had in his head. Bruce would never choose ‘green’ as his safe color—green meant nothing but pain to him.  Bruce would never make a bet he couldn’t win.

…Which means Bruce _wants_ this. Him.

Bruce, stripped down to his foundations while Clark is still wearing his red and blue flight suit. Bruce, and Superman.  Bruce and _Clark._

 _But he isn’t the only thing Bruce wants._ It's clear, from the methodology, the ‘tools’ provided, what that other thing is.

‘ _I like a challenge.’_

It’s clear that this isn’t an impulse.

 He takes the box of condoms from Bruce’s hand, smiles bright as sunshine. Chucks them over his shoulder and into a far corner, shucks the suit in a flicker of motion and advances.

“Get on the bed, Bruce.”

The warm-ups hit the floor not much later.

 

**⚜**

 

 

He’s wanted this for so long.

Clark discovers sweetness in the crook of Bruce’s neck, in the bend of his elbow, behind his ear. Anger melts away. The spice he finds nestled between muscular cheeks, warmed glass glinting when he pulls the plug free.

 _The scent of androgen, adrenaline and testosterone:_ lust and excitement, and after Clark’s all but managed to convince himself the sickly-citrus chemical under-smell of Bruce is normal. He’s fallen into thinking of Bruce as apart from normal men, without a normal man’s physical concerns. It makes Clark _want_ even more.

The ubiquitous nose-stinging Wayne cologne is missing; there’s no orange-chemical funk of the biological scent-maskers Bruce must be so fond of. It’s too much, after putting all this in front of him, to ask Clark not to snuffle his way between Bruce’s legs. Bruce arches, thighs jerking at every wet, searing imprint Clark leaves, from his tailbone to the base of his bobbing cock. He spasms when Clark sucks a mark into the tender span of his perineum, goes limp when Clark licks out at the purpling bruise.

 

Clark considers the long lines of the man under him: the incredible, graceful arch of Bruce's spine, the flexibility in the legs wrapped tight around him. Bruce makes near to no sound at first, his eyes closed, his breathing unnaturally even. His body is tight, his muscles tense; despite it, he still reaches for Clark, still parts his thighs and groans loudly, breaking the quiet when Clark presses into him.

 

Clark doesn’t waste time; he knows the stakes and he knows what he wants.

Bruce wasn’t kidding about the lube either though – Clark takes in the array of choices then ignores the water-based options. He chooses the stuff made from flax and green tea, with the most neutral smell. Almost a quarter-bottle of luxury lube gets applied, liberally coating his thick, uncalloused fingers. He strokes at the pale pink furl—not near oiled enough—and bends his head to lick in, until Bruce’s quads go loose and he takes Clark’s tongue, rolling his head side to side in lazy enjoyment.

He pumps—first two slicked fingers, then three—into Bruce.

Another quarter of the bottle gets spilled all along Clark’s length and spread, Clark’s hand moving in an absent blur as he eyes Bruce. The man eyes him back greedily at first, then his expression flickers and he looks down dubiously, before raising his eyebrows when Clark continues to stiffen. Clark shrugs, one-shouldered, smiles—a sympathetic, matter-of–fact sort of smile—and offers him an out.

“Like hell.” Bruce doesn’t take it.

Clark lunges.

 

He has no idea how it all manages to fit inside him. Bruce pants, evens his breathing out as his chest hammers and he refuses to make another sound. Solid unyielding warmth of the man, all along the backs of Bruce’s legs. He has to close his eyes - Clark’s cock is incredible, literally incomprehensibly wide, and unbelievably long.  Each passing second Bruce thinks, _he’s in, he must be in_ , and finds himself proven wrong. If it were an engineering problem, Bruce might still be trying to figure out how to fit that much mass into such a small aperture.

Clark has no such problem.

Bruce is already sweating, muscles trembling and shaking, when Clark’s hips rock, firm against his ass. The burn and the pressure already a constant jab and shove against his prostate. He’s greased and dripping to within an inch of his life, lungs compressed. Bruce does his damnedest to repress the shudder of overstrained muscle around the base of that immense cock.

Then Clark begins to _move._

 

 

**⚜**

 

The first time, Clark covers Bruce on the futon, just like he’s making out in the back of his pickup, face to face. He nuzzles into Bruce’s scent, nestles into his warmth. Bruce lets him put his hands where he wants, he lets Clark put his fingers in him and move Bruce how he wants him. He touches Clark, puts his mouth to foreign skin, gets the feel of another world on his taste buds, friction of coarse hands over smooth brawn and thick curling hair. He doesn’t resist, his hazel eyes narrowed into watchful slits, not until Clark tries to kiss him.

“Clark…” Bruce turns his head aside with a quiet protest.

Clark fucks like he’s making a point, like he wants to make sure he’s been heard. Clark plows into him like he's settling in for the long haul and repopulating the planet single-handedly, motions fluid and effortless, wide sunny grin belying the fresh crop of sweat beading on his skin. Fucks him with shameless ease like it’s uncomplicated, like this is a sweet comfort Clark comes home to every day, like Bruce _belongs_ on his cock. He fucks Bruce like Bruce is _his_ , as if every inch of Bruce is there just for him.

It’s precisely what Bruce had hoped for.

 

~

 

He's in deep, grinding his way to another sharp crest when he asks, when he hears it the first time. "Bruce—" Panting, glorious tight heat. "Your color--"

"Blue..." Bruce's voice is low, almost contemplative. Almost meditative as he jolts, rocked forward and back on his hands and knees under Clark. "Blue… blue… blue..." It slips out of him every few thrusts, until it fills Clark's head and it doesn’t sound as if he's calling his colors anymore. It sounds as if he's calling for Clark.

 

His sweat burns Bruce’s thighs, his back. His teeth like diamonds, like blades at Bruce’s throat. His cock is a brand, coring thick and deep into Bruce. Clark’s unstoppable, _almost undeniable_ and the relentless rhythm takes Bruce and pins him to the mattress, gives him an anchor.

Another stutter of hips against him, another rush of sticky heat liquefying within him and adding to the scandalous wet sound of their coupling. The laughing groan of Clark’s breath against his shoulder, sharp teeth testing the skin as he plows right through his own orgasm.

The shocking thick slide, hot and itching at his rim. The deeper wet drag and punch of Clark inside, savaging Bruce’s gland while the meaty head rubs against his inner walls and drives him insane. The sheer physicality of him—Clark is power—pure and absolute, so when he requests the colors Bruce gives him the only color that matters, the color that lifts his heart and strengthens his will. He gives Clark the color that he turns to when everything turns grey and dark. It streams behind his eyelids with every tidal crash of Clark’s body, the only color Bruce can see.

 

 

Clark thinks about keeping him there, on his cock until Bruce can’t walk straight. He could; he could do anything, even without Bruce's permission. This isn’t about how long or how hard he can fuck, though—it’s about satisfaction. Clark aims to be satisfied.

 

**⚜**

“Do you know how much I watch you?”

Up against the wall, Bruce’s head tipped back so his groans rain down on Clark.  His limbs curved and seeking, bending, pulling Clark in. His pulse races beneath Clark’s lips, vibrating in the air, his throat covered in darkening marks. He’s gorgeous this way, so vulnerable. Not delicate. _Exquisite._ So _have-_ able.

“Wanted you?”

Clark has always had a possessive drive—he’s blunted it over the years, covered it in layers of bumbling and friendly smiles until it can’t be seen, but it moves him now. He drives Bruce higher, scrapes him up across a field of muted aquamarine and gilded _fleur_ - _de_ - _lis_ —actual damask wallpaper—sucks lightly and watches another bruise bloom across the junction of Bruce’s neck and clavicle.

Slick heat like a vise. Legs tightening insistently at his waist, a demanding hand at the back of his neck, goading nails digging into his shoulder. A fast tattoo of thrusts, a swell of pleasure, doing his best not to crush Bruce into the damn plaster. Braces so he won’t _hurt,_ holds himself still while he spurts and shoots out into Bruce. Hears Bruce’s low sighing whimper and shakes the hair out of his eyes with a low laugh.

“That was a good one.”

Bruce’s lips are bitten red, lower caught up between white teeth. His eyes are closed and he doesn’t answer. Clark bends his head to taste and Bruce turns his head aside. Clark nibbles at the corner of his chin and Bruce jerks, whispers his name like a shield. Looks at him, eyes warning.

“Clark.”

It’s a no. It’s the most genteel ‘no’ Clark’s ever heard from Bruce. He lifts, pulls himself against gravity across the floor, taking Bruce with him.

It _was_ good…

But Clark isn’t _satisfied_.

 

~

 

There are breaks, not that Clark needs them. He takes them anyway, small passes of time where he explores and tastes, massages streaked skin until Bruce’s heart levels out, where he brings Bruce water and offers him food. Bruce sips the water and electrolyte compounds Clark holds to his mouth and tosses the fancy protein bars away with a steady, challenging glare.

“Blue.”

 

*

 

Bruce collapses, straining. Arm sliding underneath, hand pressed hot against his chest, Clark lifts him _up_ , effortlessly. Holds him there, snaps his hips forward to impale Bruce again and Bruce chokes on his gasp, yelps and goes rigid, his face tight, muscles fluttering around Clark, body sucking him in to the root.

He comes buried in, rippling heat twitching around him, face twisted into a wolfish sneer. Grins right afterward, skin buzzing.

 

~

 

He’s looking, enjoying the play of shadow and heat on Bruce’s skin. He leans in, to rub against him, to feel him and he’s ready again. Sucks another purple flower below Bruce’s ear and breathes in deeply.

He’s ready _now._

He mounts him, facedown. Head to toe, skin to skin. Finds his way again into warm, snug depths. He can’t wait to fill Bruce again, to fill him up until he smells of nothing but Clark. It’s delicious—It’s mighty _fine—_ how Bruce trembles with every thrust now, presses back with deep sighing moans and unfocused eyes.

He puts Bruce on him, on top of him; Clark slides the languid-limbed man back down on his cock fast and secure, plugs his tender hole up before he can twitch his way back to swollen tight. He smiles when he brings Bruce’s hands gently behind him and wraps a hand around both his wrists. He smiles more when he tells Bruce to work for what he wants.

He uses his other hand to stroke, tracing scars up and down Bruce’s back while he watches himself sliding in and out of that squeezing slick heat.

 

~

 

Clark sniffs him, then again. Makes that same disgruntled frown in Bruce’s peripheral view then pushes him flat. Shuffles in while Bruce is still trying to get his muscles to obey, and covers him. The fat head of his cock presses, inexorable pressure that splits Bruce open. He can’t control the sound that flies from his lungs and Clark chuckles, low and warm in his ear.

He moves too fast for Bruce to register; one moment he’s crushed into the yielding sweat-marked mattress, the next he’s on his knees, ass on Clark’s hips. His heart pounds in his ears, his blood rushes and he tips forward automatically, because Clark is holding both his wrists behind him.

In one hand.

“Work for it.” There’s no hardness to Clark’s tone, just the resolute command of a man who expects to be obeyed and the immovable solidity of his grip.

The lean forward is precarious, but the restraint gives Bruce better leverage to move.

He works for it.

 

He’s whining now, Bruce. Low and fervent, breath blocked out to the rhythm of motion. The room spins, his vision shakes and blurs. When Clark pulls out, Bruce can feel every inch of him, sliding past swollen and over-sensitized flesh. His body draws at Clark, unwilling to let him go, too tender, too tired to respond in any other way. Clark’s fingertips stroke a reverie on his hip as he works his way out, flared head catching, tugging at inflamed rim, before pulling free with an obscene _pop._ Trickling heat oozing down his thighs, just before Clark sniffs him, and rubs himself, wet and weighty, against the back of Bruce’s thigh.

Gaping. Distressingly empty, cool room air touching Bruce’s inner walls.

 _Again_? He can’t get enough air to ask.

He slumps, half-hard, as he’s been for over an hour; his body is no longer taking signals, short circuited and useless. He’s raw, when Clark pushes a finger in, testing, then pats him on the rump in a friendly fashion and ignores his shivering, embarrassing noise.

“Not yet,” Clark growls under his breath, biting at the spasming muscle of Bruce’s shoulder, sniffing again.  “I’m not satisfied,” he says. Like a promise, like a pledge.

Bruce finds he has all the air he needs. “Blue…”

 

~

 

He comes to on his side, rocking. _Electric_ , zinging through his nerves. _Fire_ , searing up his spine. Aching, throbbing, and pulsing with the thump of blood in his most tender places. Unchecked, like the groan that breaks up and out when he’s pulled back with a steady, firm hand into Clark’s chest.

“Hey, there.”

Another surge. White noise. A storm of sensation. It’s enough... More than enough. Bruce lets go, shuddering, subsumed by the heat rippling under his skin; the antithesis of an out-of-body experience. Fully inhabits his body -- a vanishingly rare occurrence.

"Ungh... Fuck, _fuck_... Clark, oh… _Blue_ —” Overwhelming. Head rush stealing his thoughts. Gasping for air.

He flails an arm up, hooks it behind Clark’s neck, presses into the lips at his throat. Suction, sharp _teeth_ , overlapping and raking across the growing collection of burst capillaries.

“Yeah? Always wanted to try this.” Deep baritone thrumming though him, hot gust in his ear. Gorgeous, limitless sincerity, without artifice. Bruce’s system is pushed to the line, coasting on endorphins and outright endurance.

 _Ascending_.

 

The push and pull is biting now, arrowing through his veins, pounding in his arteries, agonizingly good. There is no room, no floor, no walls.. There is no Mission. No world, no _ego_. He’s free.

There’s only the wash of electrical interference through ringing nerves. There’s only Clark—

 confidently and faithfully fucking Bruce’s brains out. Taking him. _Using him._

“Good, Bruce,” from everywhere and nowhere. “Almost there. You’re doing so good, you’re so damn good, darlin’—”

 _Clark saying it like it's… It **is** true. He’s doing good, yes. Yes. _ A flicker at the edge of awareness. 

“Do you wanna come?” Clark touching, _stroking_ him in slow, deliberate counterpoint. “I want you to. Just like this.” Nosing at Bruce's jaw. “Gonna make you.” A sliding kiss to his cheekbone. Low whisper in his ear. “You’re always so good for me, Bruce.”

_"Yes."  Yes, he is._

He’s coming, he’s _been_ coming and now he’s finally _here._

A scouring inhale, grasping, clinging. Bruce is—

He’s—

Spiraling. Blinding, strobing darkness. The edge and brink of consciousness.

“That's it, that's what I want… _good.”_

  _Blue._

 

“Mmm. That was some kinda nice.”

 _Nice?_ He doesn’t even have the decency to sound tired. _“Ugh.”_ Bruce eyeballs him for a fierce moment, but it’s all the effort he can put into it.

 “Not that I don’t appreciate all the hustle you put into ah… arranging this, but you know,” Clark sighs happily, sprawled out beside Bruce. The fluffy towel in his hand rubs lightly over Bruce’s tingling skin, wicking sweat and slick away.  “Next time you could just call me over. If y'ever wanna do this again, I mean.” He snuggles one of the bright blankets around Bruce, still kissing at his shoulder.

Bruce gives a heartfelt groan as he tips himself sideways. He can't sort one signal out from the rest - every part of him buzzes dully, not quite overworked enough to be numb.

“Do you wanna, uh, do…”

Even his _toes_ are throbbing. “Clark.”

“Hm?”

He’s definitely sleeping in. Bruce puts the very last bit of energy he has into shutting Clark up. It’s nothing fancy, just a soft press of lips, but it does the job.

When he lets his head drop back down from the kiss, truly done in, there’s a light blush for the first time, on Clark’s cheeks. “Well, gee, Bruce.”

 “Blue. Now let me get some damn sleep.“

 

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